Hermit

 

Om Manipadme hum.

The hollowness that I sit, in chair pose, in like an old ascetic, young in age but old in

the mind is like the curtain of the room. The bidding spring breeze waltzing with it

composing the game of light & dark; putting up on the easel of this moment the canvas

brushed with the hue of the chiaroscuro conceiving from the ticks of the wall clock. 

The memories of a past life that I’ve, a beautiful girl, and a lot of dreams,

surprisingly yes, the same old story of the many other guys;

those memories, now, don’t haunt me ’cause I turned to hunter whenever they

tried to break me down, and the board overturned; they’re haunted & I’m the hunter.

those memories then ask for forgiveness because nothing can stands when you, I or

anyone asked the memory specific one to recall or replay; soul trapped inside a dead

body once freed doesn’t want to get captured again. They’re like the black drongo, born

for the sky, not for the cage. Those memories now lie as a crumble of the biscuits I had a

few minutes ago. The hollowness that I sit in like an aged young hermit is filled with the

aspirations of anyone have. The manuscript of my unborn work lying inside me; kicking

sometimes; to be out. Out in this world; to feel the dust; to feel the air. I’m nourishing it

with my thoughts & wishes.

Kolkata outside is brimming with Wednesday lazy-symphony. The cloud is

Curtaining the sun then and now. I, the hermit, shall lie down to feel her heartbeat. And

Let my oeuvre blanket me so that I can nourish my unborn works with the warmth of

My thoughts.

Om Manipadme hum.

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National Poem Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 2018: Day#4: Write a poem that is about something abstract – perhaps an ideal like “beauty” or “justice,” but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns.

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Linked to dVerse Pub

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